"Okay, skipper, but I'm serving notice. If we don't hear from Bob today, I'm going to break silence and ask the boss for some kind of aircraft that can land us on that mesa, up there. We wouldn't have a ghost of a show taking over the cable-car. A dozen men piled out of that house when we skidded up close to the pier."
Slate maneuvered the ice-skiff around the tip of the island. He moved the tiller skillfully. They glided to a stop at the foot of a towering precipice, as he furled the sails.
Slate reached into his parka and extracted a package of cigarettes and a lighter. "Better have one. It may help thaw out your red, red nose."
April rubbed the inflamed member. "Feels like it's frozen." She took a cigarette from the pack and allowed him to light it
"I'll try first," Slate said. He flipped up the aerial on his fountain-pen, adjusted it for distance and pressed a finger on the signal button.
"One good thing about these latest models," he observed, "they don't give out with beeps the way the old ones did. If Bob is up there and alive-and carrying his fountain pen---all he'll get is a series of gentle jolts against his chest or whatever."
They sat in silence as Mark Slate continued to signal. The battery wires in their parkas kept them from feeling the cold too intensely, but it was discouraging business, sprawling on a flimsy ice-craft, waiting for a return signal that, it seemed, would never come.
April said, "Bury your own red nose for a while. I'll try my luck for a change."
She flipped up her aerial and pressed the signal. Both of them gave a startled jerk. A voice came over fuzzily. It might be Bob Walton, but they couldn't be sure. The voice was too faint.
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. said a silent prayer before speaking. "Is that you, Tarzan? Jane here."
The voice came through a shade stronger. "Gandura told me not to answer the door. She didn't say anything about not answering a fountain pen. She should have told me."
April's heart sank. The voice sounded like Walton's, but the words were those of a sleepy, bewildered little boy. She drew a deep breath and tried again.
"Listen carefully, Bob. You are tired and sleepy now. We won't talk any more. Take out your fountain-pen and press the bottom dot on the pen at exactly twelve o'clock tonight. I will call you then. Be sure you are alone. Don't tell Gandura or anyone else about my calling. Do you understand?"
Walton's voice answered, "I think I understand. You will call me, won't you? I like your voice."
April said, "Good. Now, press the top dot on your fountain-pen. The little aerial will go down. Put the pen in your pocket. Good-by for now."
There was a click that signified a cutoff.
April and Mark looked at each other in dismay. She voiced their collective thoughts.
"That certainly sounded like Bob, but if it is, he is in bad shape. Either he doesn't know who we are, or someone is impersonating him and trying to lay a trap for us."
"We'll find out, one way or the other, at midnight," Slate said grimly, as he unfurled the sails. They glided away silently.
EIGHT
JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME AND THE PEN
A rhythmic tapping, just above his heart, partially aroused Bob Walton from sleep. He tried to ignore it, so that he could recapture the pleasant dream the pulsation had interrupted. The thumping sensation continued.
His eyes remained closed, but some remote flicker of the subconscious caused him to reach inside his coat and fumble for the source of the vibrations. His fingers encountered his fountain pen and almost automatically removed it from the inside pocket. The pen caught on the edge of the pocket, accidentally elevating the instrument's tiny antenna.
The blue eyes opened and gazed in perplexity at the tiny pen and its wispy, spider-like antenna. The combination of mesmerizing mist and oxidized antidote had left Walton in a semi-hypnotic state.
As he tried to focus on the pen, it spoke to him. Conquering a panicky impulse to drop the strange object to the floor, Walton removed the oxygen mask, sat erect and studied the pen closely. The voice spoke again. He felt, somehow, that it was important for him to answer. After several ineffective efforts, he managed to tell the pen that Gandura had left orders for him not to answer the door.
"She didn't say anything about a fountain pen," he added. "She should have told me."
The voice continued, but Walton found it difficult to concentrate. It was with a sigh of relief that he followed instructions to put the pen back in his pocket and wait for a midnight resumption of the talk.
April's plea for secrecy, plus a vague subconscious monitoring kept Walton from mentioning the strange experience when Gandura returned, helped him on with his coat and took him for the promised walk in the gardens.
Five minutes in the cold, crystal-clear air worked wonders. Walton breathed deeply and smiled at his companion, Gandura returned the smile as they walked arm in arm.
Arriving at the pavilion Gandura had visited earlier, they seated themselves on a bench. The little Indian studied the handsome features of the young man beside her with mixed feelings. She was thankful she had saved this nice boy's mind from permanent damage, but she had moments of unease. What if he were not as completely under her control as he seemed to be? She had taken on quite an assignment. Keeping this young giant mentally whole, and, at the same time, submissive to her, might be a feat beyond her powers.
She stole another look at the boyish face and shrugged the thought away. Walton was under constant surveillance. The plateau was an armed camp. Even from where they were sitting, she could see some of the guards posted on the estate. There was no possible way for young Walton to toss a monkey-wrench into THRUSH’s carefully laid plans.
Walton ran a hand over his left leg, frowning. "Funny," he said. "I dimly remember that this leg was in a cast, but I can't for the life of me recall how it got broken."
"Does it hurt?"
"I get an occasional twinge, but it seems perfectly sound."
Gandura laughed softly. "Judging from the way you do the frug with all the ladies, I would say the leg is very sound and very strong."
Walton shook his head. "There are a lot of things I can't remember. I must have had some sort of life before I came to this plateau, but my past is a blank. I've asked Granny, but she always gives me the same answer you do. Everything will be explained in due time."
His companion laid a tiny hand on his arm. "You mustn't be impatient, Robert. I promised you that I would explain all of the things you don't understand when the time was right. You will know everything there is to know, in the very near future. All I ask is that you follow my instructions. I never break a promise. You'll see. Please trust me."
Walton returned her smile. "I trust you, Gandura."
The tiny Indian sighed as she rose to her feet. She must overcome the feeling of guilt that this youngster's helpless faith in her continued to arouse.
"We must return to the house, my dear. I promised Mrs. Pine I would discuss the matter of replacing two of her servants."
Walton's voice showed his interest. He placed a restraining hand on her arm. "Which two? Let me guess."
His look was that of a mischievous boy. Gandura thought again how like a happy child this young man seemed when he was with her. She laughed and squeezed his arm.
"Very well, Robert. One guess."
"Mrs. Pine hates all of her servants, but I think she dislikes her personal maid and the butler most of all. Did I guess right?"
"Out of the mouths of babes and innocents," Gandura thought, as they trudged through the snow.
Walton tugged at her arm. "Tell me. Have I guessed right?"
"You did, dear, but you mustn't let Mrs. Pine know that I've told you about her plans. She would be very annoyed with me."
Walton nodded his understanding as they entered the manse.
There was a stiff wind blowing, as Mark Slate jockeyed his tricky ice-craft into the shadow of the precipice. He saw that it would be necessary to toss the heavy drag overboard if they w
anted to remain stationary.
April Dancer peered into the darkness and made an impatient sound. "Everything is cock-eyed on this assignment. Ordinarily, we could be sitting in our nice warm rooms at the ski lodge, while we contacted Bob---or whoever. THRUSH must have a really powerful transmitter and an even stronger scrambling ray on that plateau to keep us from breaking through before now."
Slate grunted an affirmative. "All of our luck hasn't been bad, though. We could have tried forever, without contacting anyone, if we hadn't accidentally hit this blind spot in their power set-up. Something between us and their scrambling equipment is acting as a buffer, thank heaven!"
He peered at the luminous dial of his watch. "One minute to midnight. I hope our young friend is the punctual type."
A voice that seemed to be in the sled with them said, "I'm not sure I'm your friend, but I am the punctual type. What happened to your voice? You sounded like a girl, before."
Mark and April exchanged stricken glances. The voice was Bob's. There was no question about that. There was no question about something else. Bob did not have the remotest idea who they were.
Slate swore under his breath.
"They've brainwashed the boy," he whispered. "What'll we do?"
April Dancer controlled her voice, forcing a naturalness which she didn't feel.
"This is April, Bob. April Dancer. It was my voice you heard before. Don't you remember me? We're friends. True friends."
She thought swiftly. "How is your leg? Is it all healed?"
The voice lost its guarded tone.
"If you know about my leg, you must be my friend. Can you tell me how I broke it? Nobody else will tell me, not even Gandura."
April said, "I'll tell you all about it when I see you."
The tone became stubborn. "Tell me now. I want to know."
"Stall," Mark Slate whispered. "Ten him about falling out of a tree, then get him off the subject. I'll try to think of something we can say, to get through to him."
April said, "You fell out of a tree. I can't tell you more than that, right now. Somebody may be listening. Tell me, Bob, can you walk on your leg? Does it hurt?"
The voice sounded puzzled. "What was I doing in a tree?" Walton asked.
"I can't tell you that. Please, Bob, trust me. I promise to tell you the whole story when I see you. You've got to trust me."
The listening pair heard a deep sigh.
"All right. I'll wait. Are you a real person and not just a voice?"
"I'm very real, Bob. The pen in your hand is just a transmitter. I'm talking to you from a spot near your island. Tell me something about your activities. Is anything exciting going on up there?"
Walton answered, "I wouldn't say it's exciting, but Mrs. Pine is mad at her servants. She's firing two of them, because they're too old and set in their ways. Gandura is going to help her get two young ones in their place."
Mark hissed into April's free ear. "This may be our cue. Ask him who's getting the axe."
April nodded agreement. "Who is being fired, Bob? Perhaps I could have one of the jobs. I'm dying to see you again. We used to have such fun together. My brother Mark and I need work very badly."
A delighted laugh came through. "That's perfect! Mrs. Pine is firing Marie, her personal maid and Soames, the butler. You'd be swell for Marie's job. I can tell by your voice. It's young and peppy. Your brother can be the butler. This is great! I'll tell Gandura right away."
"No! Wait a minute, Bob. Let's keep this our secret. Don't tell Gandura or anyone. Not even your grandmother. Find out what employment agency Gandura expects to contact and let me know. We'll play a little trick on them. Mark and I will be waiting for Gandura. She'll hire us and then we can be together again. Will you do this for me?"
Walton's voice was joyous. "You bet! I'll find out first thing in the morning. Can you call me around ten o'clock? I'm usually alone at that time."
Mark Slate grinned from ear to ear and gave April the V-for-Victory sign.
She said, “Ten o'clock is perfect.
Listen carefully, Bob. Look in your wallet and see if there is a small circular gadget there. There is? Good! Next time we talk to each other I want you to put that little thing in one of your ears and press the middle dot on your pen. That way, no one will be able to hear my voice, but you. And, Bob, remember. This is our own private secret. You mustn't tell anyone about our talking pen, about our plans to join you up there or anything. If you do, it will spoil everything."
NINE
COMING UP---0NE BUTLER, ONE MAID
Mr. Waverly’s voice came through the office intercom clearly. April Dancer and Mark Slate exchanged smiles. The boss's diction, voice and haughty mannerisms were typical of the snobbish receptionist of an employment office that supplies the rich with domestics.
The voice continued: "Mrs. Pine informed me during our telephone conversation, that she is desirous of obtaining a butler and personal maid who are young enough to be attractive and experienced enough to be letter-perfect in the performance of their duties."
A dry rustling of papers filtered through to them. Mr. Waverly cleared his throat and resumed.
"This office has supplied Mrs. Pine with all of her upper echelon domestics for some thirty years. I feel that I am en rapport with her thinking and requirements. In examining the qualifications of every available upper-class domestic, I found only two that could meet her rigid standards."
More rustling of papers. He went on. "As you may be aware, the Duchess of Blatsford died recently. I persuaded Her Grace's butler, Slate, and personal maid, Miss April Dancer, to come to this country and enter the services of Mrs. Treadwell Caruthers, of the Beacon Hill Caruthers. By a macabre coincidence, Mrs. Caruthers passed away less than a month after they entered her service."
The voice paused again, Mark Slate whispered: "Ten-to-one the old boy is polishing his eye-glasses and giving Gandura the frosted optic treatment, at this point."
April stifled a giggle as Mr. Waverly resumed, "This very sad occasion made these two exceptionally qualified domestics available. I have arranged for you to speak with them."
A bell rang in the room that sheltered the listening April and Mark. The door opened in the office occupied by Mr. Waverly and Gandura.
The little Indian's gaze swept over the entering pair. The girl wore an exquisitely tailored black suit of conservative style. Her shoulder-length black hair hung in soft waves. The blond young man was attired in a charcoal gray suit that was definitely Bond Street.
Gandura hadn't expected them to be so attractive. The watching trio could see that she was both pleased and impressed.
Mr. Waverly replaced his glasses and peered owlishly at the visitor.
"I have briefed Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate thoroughly as to salary, duties and Mrs. Pine's requirements. Are there any questions you care to ask them?"
The Indian beauty shook her head and smiled at the pair. "None. I am certain Mrs. Pine will find them most satisfactory. Please arrange for Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer to be at the railroad station in Bedford Village, Vermont tomorrow morning at eleven. I will meet them with Mrs. Pine's power-sled and take them to the island."
She rose to her feet almost simultaneously with Mr. Waverly. Shaking hands with him, she smiled a farewell to April and Mark.
The trio exchanged grins as the door closed behind the Indian girl.
April said, "Mr. Waverly, I should be used to anything at this stage, but I never cease to marvel at U.N.C.L.E.’s contacts. How did you manage to take over this Boston employment agency long enough to sell us to Mrs. Pine and Gandura?"
Mr. Waverly looked pleased.
"That, my dear, is a trade secret. Suffice to say that we have vastly more far-reaching connections than a Beacon Hill butler emporium. Actually, this type of operation often furnishes us with excellent under-cover agents. Mr. Hawthorn, who runs this particular office, is one of many invaluable contacts.
"Normally, I would have allowed him to han
dle the matter personally, but the assignment is so important I couldn't take the slightest chance of anything going wrong."
He looked at his watch. "I have exactly one hour before my plane leaves for New York, so we must be brief."
Spreading two large charts on the desk, Mr. Waverly beckoned. "This enlarged telescopic picture is one of a series taken from our supersonic jet at an extremely high altitude. The lenses show the plateau occupied by the Pine estate, exactly as it appears to the naked eye. As you will note, the only clearing is the one which shows the mansion, its outbuildings, a large greenhouse, a number of small pavilions, the powerhouse for the cable-car and the gardens. The rest is a dense forest of spruce trees."
He rolled the picture and replaced it with another. "This telescopic picture was taken from the same invisible altitude with the last word in infra-red technique.
"As you are aware, Mark, the Allied Air Forces used a low altitude version of this same technique to spot the amazingly clever camouflage used by the Germans in World War II. Note the three circular blobs of red that appear in what the other picture portrayed as uninterrupted forest?
"We see here the fine Teutonic hand of Hitler's former henchman, the villainous Krause. Krause has used the same type of camouflage by which the Germans concealed rocket-launching pads, factories, submarine bases and, in some cases, entire cities, from aerial view; a fine mesh of hand-painted canvas that stretches over the entire target areas. The rays of our advanced photographic process bounce off this camouflage material and give us an immediate color differential between the camouflage and the blue spruce of the forest."
Mr. Waverly peered at them through bushy eyebrows. "We can only guess what those three camouflaged clearings contain. An educated guess is that one is a landing and take-off area for the mysterious vertical lift air vehicle you saw in Palm Beach. Perhaps another conceals their wireless tower. The third may hide rocket bases and missile launching tower pads. Or it might be something as prosaic as a warehouse. There is, of course, only one way to find out exactly what the camouflage does conceal and that is by the old reliable shanks-mare method."
The Mesmerizing Mist Affair Page 5
